


First Waltz

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Almost Kiss, Ballroom Dancing, Developing Relationship, First Dance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is not usually a follower, but after an evening watching Dr John Watson lead on the dance floor, he makes an exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ennisnovember](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennisnovember/gifts).



> Written as a commission for Ennis. [Want one?](http://mistyzeo.tumblr.com/post/134646889382/mistyzeo-commission-me-to-write-a-fic-and)

My Watson has a great number of commendable skills, all of which are of use to me as a detective. His bravery is unmatched, his aim with a revolver impeccable, and his gentle nature and skill with members of the opposite sex smooth the way when I have been callous or unwilling. He has other virtues, of course, and a few vices, but it was this delicacy of touch and gentleman's upbringing that made him the centre of attention at the Stretton-Bickford annual winter ball.

Usually, for my own sanity, I decline invitations to social events hosted by my grateful former clients, but Watson's mood had been low lately owing to the shortening of the days and the way the cold weather played havoc with his old wounds. It was hard for me to see him unhappy, and the smile of surprise and delight on his face when I informed him he would be required to come as well was worth the toll the whole night would take. I revel in the everyday hubbub of London, the murmur of voices and the rumble of wheels, the whole city moving and breathing together; but a few hours in polite company, making small-talk and suffering the heat of a thousand bodies in one room, drains me. There's too much information in close quarters to process.

Watson, on the other hand, was succoured by the occasion. He never looked better than when he was in his best tails, flush with enjoyment, whirling an eligible young lady around the dance floor. His dance card was full, with a waiting list, and I stood to the side drinking him in, my glass of champagne going untouched as he turned woman after woman through the steps and flourishes and graceful spins. Once, I would have worried for his bachelorhood, but lately I was rather more secure in my position as his companion. Something was growing between us, something planted early in our acquaintance just now beginning to take root, and I knew jealousy would be like a blight upon a crop. I trusted him, as he did me, and so I was able to enjoy his neat footwork, his confident gaze, his bright and genuine laugh.

We ate, drank, and received, once again, the commendations of Lord and Lady Stretton-Bickford. Watson teased me and praised me for enduring the party for their sake. Their financial gratitude had been much more welcome, I admit.

I stole away around two in the morning and hid on the terrace in the night's refreshing chill, smoking alone. Watson found me within fifteen minutes. He called my name and came hurrying, only to smile beatifically when he had reached me. It was nice to be missed. He shared my cigarette and assured himself that I was not sulking, and then went back to the party. I spent another quarter of an hour there, recuperating, but soon I missed him in turn and followed.

In the early morning hours, a hansom took us home to Baker Street. Once safely within our four walls again, Watson collapsed into his armchair and tugged his tie loose.

"By Jove, Holmes," said he, "I feel as though I could spend another hour dancing." The exhaustion I could read in his face belied this assertion, but I extended my hands to him all the same.

"I did not have a chance myself," said I. "You were quite completely occupied."

He took my hands, hesitating at first, but his grip on my fingers was firm. He let me pull him to his feet again. The sky beyond the windows was just beginning to lighten, turning grey to herald the sun. Watson slid his right arm behind my back, his palm supporting my shoulder blade, and guided me into a smooth half turn. I clasped his hand and leaned into him, embracing him with my left arm and sliding my left hand up to rest on the top of his shoulder.

"Do you not usually lead?" he asked, taking another step forwards which moved me neatly backwards across the hearth rug.

"I do not usually dance," I said.

"But surely you learned." He turned me again, navigating around our closely-packed sitting room. I could feel the puff of his breath against my cheek, and the warmth of his firm chest against mine. I could feel his heart beating. Rather than look over his shoulder, as would have been polite, I looked into his face.

"As a youth," I admitted, "forced into the social obligations my parents insisted upon."

"Since then?"

I shook my head.

"You are a natural follower," he said.

"Not in most aspects of my life."

"No, indeed," Watson agreed, with a grin. "I am grateful and honoured to be _your_ follower in most situations." We turned again, now traversing the space between the settee and the breakfast table.

"My dear Watson," said I, "don't be absurd. You are my _partner_ , not my follower. It is the members of the Metropolitan Police Force who follow, though they often object to being led."

He laughed, and drew me around another corner. We were back by the fireplace again. The room wasn't very large. Then Watson let me slip from his grip a little, releasing me, and pushed gently upon my back while raising his other hand upwards. I spun beneath his arm, turning, and ended up across the carpet from him having made one complete revolution. Our hands were still joined.

"I should put on some music," he said.

"You'd wake the house," I replied.

"Then we will make do." He smiled at me, his moustache rustling luxuriantly. I licked my lips, drawn to him. He let out a breath and tipped his head down, not quite ready. I didn't mind. I moved close and took up my position once more, within the circle of his arms. I rubbed my thumb up and down the back of his jacket, reassuring him, and felt him relax a little. His cheeks were flushed. When he looked up again, I was momentarily lost in the familiar depth of his eyes. Nevertheless, I was ready when he moved me again, attuned to the guidance of his body. He was a splendid leader.

"What do you look for in a dance partner?" I asked, as we turned in a slow circle, counting to three. A small waltz.

"Responsiveness," he said. "Enthusiasm. A knowledge of the dance, and a willingness to experiment."

"And if your partner has no knowledge?"

He smiled again, and this time leaned in to press his cheek to mine. He whispered, "Then I endeavour to teach," in my ear, so soft that I shivered. I could feel the scrape of his stubble against my jaw, the long night telling. I was tired, my mind too busy and my body spent, but his closeness buoyed me up. I clasped him tightly. He smelled of sandalwood soap, his favourite pomade, my tobacco which we had shared. I breathed him in, deeply stirred. He chuckled, warm and deep, and his hand on my back shifted once more. He spun me away and drew me back, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. He had control of me entirely, but that was nothing new.

The sun was rising now, peeking over the buildings opposite, and soon I knew our household would be rising. I was loath to be interrupted, even by so understanding a soul as our landlady, and so I let my fingers drift from his. We stood gazing at one another in the growing light. Watson was smiling. He ducked his head, covering his mouth with his hand, and I knew the decision to pull away had been the right one. Just like jealousy, pressure to grow would stifle the bloom.

"Goodnight, my dear fellow," I said.

"Good morning, isn't it, Holmes?"

"A very good morning," I agreed. "And, all social niceties aside, a pleasant evening as well."

"Thank you for the ball," he said.

"It was not my idea," I protested. "You know I don't choose to attend such occasions."

"Not usually," Watson said, stepping close to gather my hand in his again. "And so I’m grateful. For everything."

I laced our fingers together. "My dear Watson– for you, anything."


End file.
